


Behind the Scenes

by lovesickjily



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 12:17:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17467394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesickjily/pseuds/lovesickjily
Summary: The first rule of being an actress was to never, under any circumstances, fall for a co-star. Lily Evans didn’t think that she’d have that problem, not with James Potter at that rate, but life seemed to have its surprises.





	Behind the Scenes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [womeninthesequel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/womeninthesequel/gifts).



> happy belated birthdayyyyyyy to my lovely wonderful friend. i hope your birthday was fantastic like you are. <3
> 
> please leave kudos and comments if you enjoyed this :)

“I love you.”

The words slipped out of his mouth easily, quickly, as if they were syrup falling atop a pile of complete and utter sweetness.

She was fairly apt to hearing the utterance of such words, _so_ much to the point that such lines seemed to lose the luster associated with the endearing term.

Now though, there was no need to think about anything _but_ love. _She_ was in love, right now, at this very moment, _so_ in love that she couldn’t will herself to think about anything _but_ the man sitting to the left of her, the words out in the open air, hanging over them like a thin sheet. They were in the back of a car, illuminated by nothing but the moonlight drifting in from the windows and the streetlights that rolled by, and from her position, she could make out the glows that brought out the hazel in his eyes, swirling with so many colours that she couldn’t even pinpoint one shade that she liked best.

They’d gone through so much together, had been marked by horrendous experiences that they could only learn to forget in the presence of one another, and after all that they had been through, they’d finally gotten time by themselves, secluded from the rest of the world without so much as a fear of unwarranted interruptions. The car would keep driving, and there would be nothing that disrupted their time together. From her closeness to him, she could make out the scar painting the side of his cheek, which had come from the torture that he’d endured in an effort from the enemy team to get answers out of him. He was propped up against his seat now, one long leg resting on the seat beside him, though not stretching far enough to reach her.

Love.

It wasn’t as if it was anything new that she _didn’t_ know.

In the back of her mind, it was something that she’d always acknowledged.

Of _course_ she knew that he was in love with her. She’d heard him calling out for him, a sound so heartbreakingly tragic, when she finally found her way right back to him, but as much as she wanted to forget the sight of him in so much _pain,_ she knew that she could never, not when that scar was a physical reminder of all that he’d been through.

The pain that he’d gone through was more than enough to push those words out of his lips, and so she turned towards him, unclicking her seatbelt as she slid towards him. “Confessing after nearly dying of _not_ giving out personal information?”

Rather than smiling, he gave her a look of slight derision, before turning towards the window. He scoffed. “Forget it. Nevermind, then.”

Her hand flew up to his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes, and she made out his uncertainty despite having said the words with an air of confidence, as if he was unsure of whether or not she reciprocated his feelings. She smiled softly at him. “I’m not forgetting anything. I already _knew.”_

The corner of his lip jutted outwards, though not by enough to break the harshness on his face. “Was it really that bloody obvious?”

She _knew_ how painfully obvious it was. He’d left her far more lingering looks than a person could ever have, had always put her safety above his own, and although it was far more reckless on his part than romantic, the gestures went too far for her to _not_ notice. The love that he felt for her was so strong that it practically radiated off of him, bounced off every surface of the walls, until it hit her.

She loved him as well. How could she _not?_ To share experiences with someone that you didn’t share with anyone else made that person special, and it left an everlasting mark on her heart. She let every instance of her love for him take a physical manifestation on her face so that all she could showcase towards him was her adoration, and she brought herself closer so that she was flushed against him.

Every second had led to this one singular moment, this one moment that they’d anticipated for the longest of times.

She let out a light laugh. “Our job _involves_ secrecy. If there’s one thing that you _can’t_ seem to hide, it’s your feelings.”

He grimaced slightly. “I tried my best,” he grumbled, “It’s a bit hard when it’s _you.”_

“And it’s _just_ me.” She let her other hand cup his cheek, and she gave him a warm smile. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

He _finally_ smiled in response, and she felt her eyes closing, knowing what was to come next, but with the quietness that had filled the room in those very seconds, she couldn’t help but think about the current situation at hand.

She _couldn’t_ do this.

There was so much _wrong_ with it all, and when his lips fell against hers, _nothing_ felt magical at all.

The only thing she felt right there, right now, was disgust.

Complete and absolute _disgust._

She wasn’t Phoebe Clarke anymore. Phoebe Clarke was in love with the man standing in front of her; _Phoebe_ felt the love that millions, perhaps _billions,_ of people wanted to feel at some point in their lifetime.

 _She,_ on the other hand, was Lily Evans, and kissing her at that very present moment was definitely _not_ Thomas Bell, mysterious, handsome, _brave._ James _Potter_ was kissing her, and no amount of talent could ever brace her for the sensation of his lips against her own, not without feeling as if she was stepping into muddy water with socks present on her feet— wet and gross and _unbearable._ It was far too much to ask of her, and she was unnerved by his hands placed ever-so-innocently on her waist and cheek, holding her tenderly when all she wanted was for him to get _off_ of her.

She wanted to be saved from this monster of a situation, and when the director yelled out a sudden “Cut!”, she felt relief overtaking every one of her senses, to which she immediately tugged the messy-haired man right off of her person. She didn’t dwell on the fact that there would be a retake— perhaps retakes after retakes— because all she could think about was the fact that her lips would permanently be scarred from encountering a pair as gruesome as the very ones on James Potter’s face.

“Miss Evans,” the director and productor— Minerva McGonagall, who was only one of the _most_ well-respected people when it came to the industry— said, approaching her, with a walk so brisk that anyone would have moved out of the way so as to avoid her. “I sincerely hope that you don’t intend to demonstrate your talents through a kiss as tragic as this was.”

She felt her cheeks flush a bit at the woman’s words. “I don’t. I’m sorry.”

McGonagall nodded sternly at her. “We’ll try another take shortly, then. Please take a small break.”

She walked away, and Lily picked up her bottle of water, watching as Mary approached her with makeup in her hands.

“Maybe look less like you’re snogging a frog?” Mary said beside her, and when Lily glared at her, she was met with a false smile. “Just a suggestion.”

“At this rate, I’d rather a frog than _him.”_ Her eyes flickered over to _him,_ their topic of conversation, who was talking in low tones with his friend, and it was public information that the two of them were the closest that friends could have ever been. She tore her eyes away from him, scorn evident on her face, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of thinking that she was staring at _him_ from afar.

“He’s _much_ more gorgeous than a frog could ever be,” Mary replied, and she reached out to fix some of Lily’s makeup. “Just pretend he’s the man of your dreams. That’s how you’ve gotten through your other movie kisses, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” she sighed, “But none of my _other_ co-stars whom I’ve kissed had personalities like his.”

“You don’t kiss personality. You kiss _lips.”_

Lily regarded her friend’s response with disdain. “As far as I’m concerned, _I’m_ not kissing anyone. _Phoebe_ is.”

“Then why so visibly perturbed by James here?” another voice cut in, and she closed her eyes so as to hide the eye roll that was threatening to break out onto her face. It was, of course, Sirius Black, who was the _second_ person that she absolutely despised at this set. He had taken it upon himself to loiter about each day at the set despite not having an active role in the film’s production, and they had _let_ him. “Theoretically, two attractive— or, in this case, one attractive and the other decent at best, you take your pick on who’s who— people should have mind-blowing snogs. You’re s _lacking,_ Evans.”

“I am _not,”_ she defended herself, “I can’t just will myself to kiss someone who I have absolutely no interest in.”

“Ouch,” Potter said, seemingly out of nowhere, and she was quick to notice that he refused to catch her eye, his eyes trained on his bottle instead, “I thought you’d done a pretty good job convincing me otherwise.”

“With that kiss, I’d say you’re easy to persuade,” Sirius replied, and he looked over towards Lily, “I’ve seen compilations of the hottest, best, sweetest— _whichever adjective you bloody fucking fancy using_ kisses online— and you’ve been in _all_ of them. You’re _slacking,_ Evans.”

She didn’t want to satisfy him with the fact that he was right.

She knew, to an extent, _just_ how talented she was of an actress, if the many awards that she’d earned were of any telling, and, to her slight embarrassment, how brilliant of a kisser she was, as confirmed by more or less every one of her co-stars, who gushed about her during interviews whenever they’d had a chance. It wasn’t as if she shied away from productions that involved romance— she’d starred in a good bit of them herself— but there was something so _different_ about James Potter that repulsed her to the point that just the _thought_ of kissing him was unbearable.

She knew what it was, of course, but facing it was something that she didn’t want to do.

“Surely you’ve got to have something better to do than watch videos of me in lip-lock with my co-stars.”

“Of course I do,” Sirius affirmed with a grin, and he looked back at Potter, who had been taking a sip from his own water, “My favourite pastime is watching _him_ squirm around.”

She held off any retort that had begun growing on her lips, as McGonagall called out for them to reshoot the scene, merely giving Sirius one last little glare, and she sighed softly, not wanting to give the production staff a harder time than usual. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Sirius said, assuming that she was addressing _him,_ “I don’t even bloody blame you for not wanting to kiss him.”

She found it strange that Potter had no retort of his own, no talk that inflated his overly-grown ego, because unlike every other filming day, he hadn’t even _once_ taken advantage of the opportunity to tease her, and he merely walked back to the center of the set without another word. It was as if he was almost _offended,_ but there was nothing new about her behaviour towards him, and it was so clear how she felt towards him, even _with_ the professionalism that she maintained to keep between them.

She seated herself in her initial position in the car, telling herself that she _could_ do it. She _could_ kiss Potter— no, she was kissing Thomas Bell, who was a completely different person of his own, a man who could have made _anybody_ attracted to the male gender swoon.

She was Lily Evans— Phoebe _Clarke—_ and there was so much that she’d accomplished in her life, whether it was personal hardships or watching someone she loved in great pain, it didn’t matter, because if she could get through everything that life had thrown at her so far, then she could _definitely_ kiss the man sitting beside her.

Each line that she delivered, falling out of her lips the exact way that they were intended to be said, led up to the moment that Phoebe had been expecting for practically her entire life. She _wanted_ him, _needed_ him, and yet, Lily couldn’t help but break character at the sensation of James Potter’s lips on hers, as if touching him would spread some sort of illness throughout her entire body.

She’d failed again.

Then again, and again, and _then_ again.

She had no idea how many retakes they’d done, having lost count after twelve, and she hated it, hated _every_ single little aspect of it, from the feel of James Potter’s lips on her own, to the fact that a measly little kissing scene was destroying the title that she’d worked so hard to established as a one-take wonder. She didn’t want to _think_ about the fact that the times of all of the fleeting moments that her lips had fallen upon his could have added up to equal the time of _one_ proper on-screen kiss.

Lily was sorry. She truly, genuinely _was_ sorry, and her feelings was absolutely _worsened_ by the staff claiming that it was fine, because it most definitely was _not_ fine.

Needless to say, McGonagall was absolutely _fuming,_ stunned at the very least. “Miss _Evans.”_

“I’m so sorry, I just—”

She stopped herself, not wanting to tell her reason for as to _why_ exactly James Potter disgusted her, because as much as she advocated speaking up in situations where taking action was necessary, she didn’t want to out him here. It would only look bad on _her_ part.

McGonagall looked at her with pursed lips. “Regardless of whatever it is plaguing your mind, I expected _far_ more from you. Surely, Potter can’t be _too_ bad, can he?”

“I— no, It’s not that.” It _was_ that.

“Then, in theory, it shouldn’t be difficult to properly act out the scene.”

She shook her head in disagreement. “It’s rather difficult to engage in something so passionate when there isn’t an ounce of affection towards my co-star.”

McGonagall raised an eyebrow at her before breathing deeply through her nose. Rather than responding, she turned away from her, and Lily watched as she wheeled Potter back towards her. He looked confused. “Sorry, I— What is it that you needed?”

“Potter,” McGonagall started, and then she met eyes with Lily, “There is no doubt that constant reshoots will not result in a success. Fortunately, I understand that the problem is that you both have not taken the time to getting to know one another on a friendly basis. I believe that there is only one solution.”

Lily blinked, her eyes widened in surprise. “You’re not saying—”

“Potter and Evans,” McGonagall cut her off sharply, as if she was a professor disciplining her students, “You two are to spend at least one hour a day with one another until the thought of one another no longer brings revulsion to your faces.”

The breath flew out of her lips. There was a _reason_ why McGonagall was so successful in the industry, and _this_ was a means of exercising the power that she held.

“You’re saying we need to fake-date each other to get the kissing right,” Potter said, and he swallowed loudly. It was the manner that he said it, so nonchalantly, as if it was often that he went on fake dates with co-stars that disliked him immensely.

McGonagall gave him a curt nod. “Precisely.”

She’d already known what was to come as soon as she’d pulled Potter over, but to hear the woman’s words of confirmation did nothing but heighten the sense of dizziness that was overtaking her head.

There was no way out of it.

If she wanted to nail her role, she had to pretend to date James Potter.

* * *

“Potter, you look absolutely _ridiculous,”_ Lily said to the messy-haired man sitting across from her, only she couldn’t even _see_ the disorganisation of such a feature, because he’d taken to topping his head with a fisherman hat to conceal his identity.

A _fisherman_ hat. What was he _thinking?_

She wasn’t even entirely sure if he could even _see,_ for in place of his usual thick-rimmed glasses were a pair of large sunglasses, which she’d have thought strange if she wasn’t donning a similar pair herself. Instead of donning fishing accessories, however, she was wearing a blonde wig, topped with a white hat, as if she was about to attend one of Jay Gatsby’s elaborate parties. It was, in all, a strange experience, even more strange when considering the fact that she’d somehow _agreed_ to his idea of wearing a disguise so that they wouldn’t be caught out in public together.

They were _people._ They needed privacy just as much as the person next door needed it.

“Ridiculously gorgeous, maybe,” he replied with a grin, one that she imagined made millions of women swoon at the sight of, and yet Lily only felt exasperated, if even that, by his response. He leaned in close to her, as if he was telling her a secret. ”Between the two of us, though, I think you look better with red than blonde.”

She merely looked at him with disinterest, not even completely sure if he was serious or not, and she absolutely _hated_ how someone like him had somehow managed to hit the genetic jackpot when it came to appearances, _hated_ how he could have been exactly her type had he had the right personality to go with it. Her eyes flew right back down at the menu of the restaurant that they’d decided on visiting. “Unfortunately, I don’t make myself presentable to impress you.”

“‘Course you don’t,” he agreed, “You’ve already impressed me.”

“I’m swooning,” she said flatly, and she looked up at the waiter approaching them, careful not to hold his gaze for too long in case he knew who they were. The man looked unfazed at the sight of them, as if fishermen and old-fashioned women went on dates _all_ the time, but she’d rather his disinterest than any other reaction a person could have to them.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted them, perhaps attempting to sound as suave as he possibly could, but with Lily’s experience as an actress, all she could sense from him was complete and utter boredom, as if he was waiting for his shift to end, “Are you ready to order?”

Potter cleared his throat. “Right, could we get one of everything on the menu?” he asked, and she did not miss the manner in which his voice had seemed to dropped an octave or two. She wasn’t even sure whether she should be more surprised at the fact that he was planning on ordering more than enough to food to feed a family of eight or the obvious his change in voice.

The waiter, it seemed, was more startled at Potter’s request. “Sir, are you—”

“Sure?” Potter cut him off with the same exact tone of voice, “That’s my middle name, matter of fact. Wilson Sure Pine.”

Lily placed her own menu down, looking at the waiter with as much of an apologetic look as she could without revealing her eyes to him. “I’m sorry. My _boyfriend—”_ She said the last bit with slight pain. “ —And I will both be taking the special of the day, thank you.”

The waiter regarded them with a slight look of confusion before nodding. “And any drinks?”

“Water.”

“Milk.”

She blanched at his response. “I’m not one to judge, but who the bloody—”

“We’ll both take water,” Potter interrupted, flashing a grin towards the waiter, who was undoubtedly going to get a major tip solely for just being able to tolerate them. He nodded one last time before walking away, though not before turning back around to give them one last glance. Potter looked at her. “Boyfriend? When we haven’t had a proper first kiss yet?”

“Because you’re notorious in the acting industry, I assume you understand the acts of being assigned a character and pretending to live their lives in accordance to the script.”

“‘Course I do. I never knew that there was a script to follow.”

“There’s _always_ a script, _Pine,”_ she said pointedly, “You’re just not following it.”

“You should stop hoarding the script then, yeah? If one actor is out of line, then the entire movie is out of line.”

She nearly felt a smile threatening to fly across her face, but it wasn’t as if she was at the very top of the industry where she was concerned for no reason, and so her face showed no visibly betrayal to her true feelings towards him. They were getting friendly, _far_ too friendly for her liking, not when he’d done nothing in his power to earn the respect that he’d so lost from her years ago. Her pride was _not_ going to give in so easily. “It already _was_ out of line with _you_ as the lead.”

It was a lie.

She’d seen enough of his acting appearances in the movies that he’d starred in, whether she liked it or not, and the sights of him in each one nearly managed to send her heart flying because his characters were so charmingly _intriguing_ that they were completely different from the person playing them _._ She’d only begrudgingly admit that he’d deserved every one of his awards that he’d won, though she’d never say it to his face. _Never._

The easy grin on his face faltered slightly. “Evans, I— why do you hate me so much?”

The fact that he didn’t even _remember_ made her blood boil. It was _only_ that she’d spent every morning before going to the set that she felt intense dread, which typically overtook any excitement for her job, solely because _he_ was there, working with her. It was as if she _hadn’t_ woken up morning after morning feeling violated because men like _him_ walked the earth, standing among innocent people despite not having the right to. “You must be the absolute _worst_ if you can’t even recall doing something _so_ terrible to someone else.”

He blinked. “What?”

It didn’t matter that he looked extremely confounded by her words, because _any_ actor with abilities matching her own could easily disguise their true thoughts and feelings. It was, perhaps, how many corrupted people were able to get away with their actions without consequences, because a person’s face could give away _everything_ without them even saying so much of a word. She scoffed lightly. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“I… don’t?” She watched him, perhaps pretending to be wracking his brain for some sort of incident that he might have done, and he suddenly looked like a deer caught in the headlights, as if he was terrified at the implications of her words. “I— Listen, I’ve said in interviews that I’ve had a crush on you in the past, but I swear, I don’t mean it in the creepy fashion. It’s only ever been a celebrity crush— you know, where I’ve acknowledged your good attributes and—”

She felt her eyebrows scrunching together more and more as he went on, and now, it seemed, it was _her_ turn to be confused. What was _he_ going on about? She’d never been aware of his attraction to her, and even then, she would _never_ have been bothered by any crush— celebrity, platonic, romantic, _whichever._ “Potter, what the bloody _hell_ are you on about?”

“It’s pretty obvious what—” He stopped, and his eyes widened. He let out a light groan. _“Fuck._ That was _not_ what you were talking about. Forget that last bit of information, yeah?”

She carefully tucked his strange confession into a neat little file, placing it carefully into a small shelf in the most important area of her brain to be used later. “I can’t make any promises about that.”

He nodded painfully, and he swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving at the action. “Right. Evans, I’m sorry everything that I’ve done to you in the past.”

“You _can’t_ expect me to forgive you when you don’t even remember what you did.”

“That’s because I don’t _know_ what I bloody did, if I really did anything at all. Please, _tell_ me what I did so that I could reevaluate myself as a person,” he demanded, “At _least_ to help get rid of that bloody grudge that you’ve so obviously been holding since you first saw me on set.”

“Right, as if _that’s_ going to make your so-called apology more sincere than it already was.”

He laughed bitterly. “You’re— you’re so—”

“No, _you’re_ so, what is it? Insane? Ridiculous? Absolutely out of my mind? All predictable words, really, but could you _possibly_ blame me when you grabbed my arse in public— at an _awards_ show, out of all places—  and played it off like it was nothing?” Her face was heated up, but how could it _not,_ when it was an event that plagued her mind on far too many nights than she could count? It made her feel far more violated than she could have ever felt, especially when she was _already_ subjected to bouts of disrespect for her already-low amounts of privacy, what with the media always expected the most from her given her status. “You are _so—”_

“Wait. When I grabbed your— _what?”_ he sputtered, finally able to keep up with the words spilling from her lips, and he looked affronted by her words, “I could _never_ do that.”

She swore she saw red flash across her line of vision. “You’re—”

She was cut off promptly by the sound of the waiter’s steps, and she bit her lip, refraining from lashing out at the man sitting across from her, whose expression was nearly akin to that of a fish out of water. “Your water,” the waiter said, his eyes flickering between the two of them, as if he had sensed that something was different in the atmosphere now that her true feelings were out in the open.

“Thank you,” Lily managed to bite out, but even the best actors in the world couldn’t conceal all of the ill feelings that had been building inside of them for years. Potter mumbled out a quiet word of gratitude. Though still walking, there was something about the manner in which the worker had _shuffled_ that made it seem that he was eager to get away from them, and she briefly imagined that he was thinking about how _strained_ their relationship must have been before the thought quickly flew away.

Potter took a deep breath, swallowed, opened his mouth, and when he decided that _that_ wasn’t enough to prepare him to speak, he chugged down a rather large bit of the water in the glass that he was given. “Evans,” he started, slowly, carefully, as if she was a lion that he’d encountered in the wild, “Could you explain _when_ that’s ever happened? Because I can’t seem to imagine any other instance where we’ve made contact with each other before this film except for—” His eyes widened. “You— _no._ I _swear_ it wasn’t me.”

“Wasn’t you?” she repeated, “Then how could you _possibly_ know what I’m talking about?”

“Because I saw the bloke _doing_ it to you!” he exclaimed, and it was loud enough to grab the attentions of the people sitting around them. She didn’t miss the soft murmurs coming from their surroundings, though she couldn’t hear what exactly they were saying, and so she focused her eyes back on him, unable to make out any emotion in his eyes because of the tint of his glasses. _Continue,_ she tried to tell him, lowering her glasses down so that he could get the message just from looking at her eyes. He spoke again in a softer voice. “Mulciber. I— He was there, and I just— I got so bloody _angry,_ you know? The fact that someone just up and _did_ that to you— somewhere so _public_ too. It’s bloody _disgusting.”_

She blinked, _her_ turn to be confounded now, because as she put two and two together, the _more_ it made sense. She’d made this man into a _criminal_ of some sort in her mind, had held only _disgust_ towards him for the most of two years, only to learn that it hadn’t even been _him_ who had done it in the first place. She felt shame welling up inside of her for thinking so _lowly_ of someone, especially when she had so many tendencies to see _every_ ounce of goodness in every person, which had led to destroyed friendships in the past. Her shoulders drooped lightly. “I— I’m sorry for thinking so lowly of you, Potter.”

He shrugged lightly. “I know I can be an arse at times, so it’s no harm, really.”

She casted her eyes upwards at him, a sudden thought striking her head, and they narrowed. “You did _not.”_

“I didn’t…?” he replied, looking confused at her words, and he clerked this throat,” Sorry, I dunno _what_ it is that I did exactly.”

“Don’t be coy,” she scoffed lightly, “You punched Mulciber after the awards show ended, didn’t you? It was all over the media.”

When she’d first heard the news, she’d get even _more_ disgust welling up inside of her because she’d thought that he straight up _punched_ somebody for no reason, even _if_ that somebody was far too creepy than anyone’s liking. She’d thought that Potter had violent tendencies _on_ top of the fact that he found it a hobby to grope women in public.

He glanced down at his water, mumbling, “He had it coming for him, anyway. Just the _creepiness_ of him is enough to warrant at least a kick at him. I’d bloody go back to just swing at him even _more_ than I did.”

“That doesn’t mean that— Potter, you _can’t_ go around acting all noble on _my_ behalf. That solves absolute _nothing.”_

 _“Nothing_ I could have done would have taken any of that groping back,” he shot back, “If he couldn’t bloody learn his lesson, then he should at least walk away with _some_ sort of repercussion.”

“You can’t just go around _punching_ people,” she snapped, and she took a moment to catch her breath, not exactly wanting to explode in his face in the company of other people, who were _definitely_ looking now. _Stay calm. Calm, calm, calm._ “Potter, what about your reputation? What about _you?_ You could have definitely gotten hurt.”

He shrugged. “I was more or less asking to get hurt, anyway. _You,_ on the other hand… you had no choice in some creep touching you like that.”

She felt her heart waver for a split second at his words, but she willed that feeling away. She allowed her anger to dissipate, not exactly having the energy to lash out at someone who _hadn’t_ done her wrong, despite what she’d thought for years on, and though she still felt a small morsel of it inside of her, she decided that she was _not_ going to let it unravel out in front of Potter’s face. Before she could reply, though, the waiter came back around with their food, placing it down with _just_ enough speed so that none of it would spill. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he replied automatically, as if the response was drilled into his brain, but from the distance that he’d kept from them, it was obvious that it was most definitely _far_ from his pleasure, and the only deterrent that kept him from saying otherwise was the risk of losing his job. Despite the ambience surrounding them from all sides of the restaurant, there was a silence that lingered in the air above them, and she wasn’t exactly sure if it was a _comfortable_ silence or an uncomfortable silence.

Whichever it was though, she didn’t mind it, not when it gave her time to think.

Or, in _theory,_ it did. His eyes were focused on her, and when she averted her eyes upwards to meet his own, they shifted downwards to his plate. He cut a piece of the meat and scooped it into his mouth, looking back at her with an eyebrow drawn. “What?” she asked him, and he shrugged lightly, washing his food date with a swig of water before answering.

“You’re not eating.”

“I’m not…” she trailed off, and she blinked. “Oh.”

It was difficult to maintain any speck of anger that had ignited in her, as the flames had now been reduced to small sparks now. There was no _reason_ for her to be mad anymore, not when all of the damage had been done years ago, and if he was one to throw punches as attempts to serve justice, then she had no right to keep him from doing so, because he was far old enough to distinguish between right and wrong.

She took a bite of her own piece, shoveling it into her mouth and wiping it before turning at him once again. “Potter,” she said aloud, and her eyes softened slightly, “I’m so sorry. I hope we can leave it all in the past and start anew—”

“Don’t be,” he interrupted her, and her gave her a crooked grin, “It’s not like i’m entitled to your unconditional affections or anything. Conditional, maybe, for the film, but definitely not _un_ conditional.”

For the first time, she allowed herself to smile in the presence of James Potter. No script, no camera, just the two of them together. “I signed a contract, so I’ll have to disagree with you on the conditional bit.”

Her smile seemed to encourage him. “Yeah?” he responded, “What about the affection bit? I reckon if we’re going to be friends— _are_ we going to be friends now that this misunderstanding is resolved?”

She was slightly taken aback his words, and when she spotted no trace of insincerity in his tone, promptly closed her mouth. “I don’t see any other reason that should keep us from _not_ being friends.”

“James.”

She blinked. “Sorry?”

“That’s my name. Lovely, wouldn’t you say?”

“I _know_ what your name is, contrary to popular belief.”

He beamed. “Then, would you mind addressing me by that? Friends typically call each other by their first names, if you didn’t realise. At least let us be on a first name basis before _any_ sort of scripted kissing, yeah?”

“I think we can check off scripted kissing as a milestone in our friendship,” she replied, “Even if it _was_ the worst kisses I’ve ever had in my life.”

“Way to add salt to the wound, I’d say,” he joked, and she lightly rolled her eyes in response, but there was something _about_ him— something that she hadn’t taken the time to notice— that made her _compelled_ to keep that smile on her face. “Would it be safe to assume that you’re _not_ going to look at me like I committed a capital crime anymore?”

“I look at _everyone_ that way,” she defended.

He shook his head. “Nah. Lily Evans? As far as I know, that look’s reserved only for me, but honestly, I’d rather you _not_ make me a special case, because I quite like seeing you smiling.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to stand out from all the rest of them, anyway,” she replied, and he smiled in response.

There was something _different_ in the atmosphere now, and perhaps it was from the sheer fact that she’d made a new friend, which in itself was already something to rejoice at, but with _him?_ James Potter? Perhaps anything _was_ possible.

If she was asked how she’d think that the entire day with him would go beforehand, she would have thought that she’d much rather do anything else, was more than _willing_ to do anything else, yet there she was, laughing at a joke that he’d said, despite it not even being _remotely_ funny. Well, perhaps a _bit_ funny, but she’d usually put far much more of a fight when it came to laughter.

With James, though, it was easy. It was _comfortable._

Near the end of the “date,” he’d made a great deal of paying the entire bill, not because he thought it was a chivalrous thing of him to do, because had _that_ been the case, he’d have easily let her split the bill with him. No, it was because he claimed that if the worker saw the name on her card, he’d go absolutely _wild,_ and there was no way to escape the throngs of people rushing in to meet her. When she refuted his statement with the fact that he was easily _just_ as famous, he refused to listen to her.

“Promise me you won’t go bonkers if you read the name on my card?” James asked the server in that same voice from earlier, and the man was _definitely_ tiring from his shenanigans.

“Sir, I have no time for this.” He motioned towards the entire restaurant, each seat filled with people, as if he managed the _entire_ place by himself.

“Right.” He handed the man his card, who swiped it without so much as a glance at it, until he handed it right back to him, and his eyes widened, flickering from the card, then towards James. Needless to say, he was _absolutely_ in disbelief.

“I— You’re—”

James gave him a crooked grin, and he secured an arm around Lily’s waist, his hand hovering in the air rather than clasped onto her person, to which she was _immensely_ grateful for. “Have a fantastic day.”

The air felt cool against her skin as soon as they’d left the establishment, and he let go of her, laughter falling from his lips when they were out of range. She couldn’t help but join in with him, and she found that she quite liked his laugh, a sound that she couldn’t believe that she’d been missing out on for the longest of times. It was only unfortunate that they were nearing the end of filming, because she would have _loved_ to spend more time with him, to hear his laugh and his jokes.

“Have you a safe way to get home?” he asked her once they’d calmed down, “I don’t want you to end up as a missing person or anything, in the case that some person manages to somehow outsmart you.”

She nodded, smiling softly in return. “There’s some perks of being famous. What about you?”

“I reckon I’m in good— Oi, Evans. Watch out!”

Before she had the chance to ask him to elaborate, she suddenly felt his arms whirling around her person, whisking away from the edge of the street and turning her as that his back was facing the road instead. It seemed as if everything was moving in slow motion, and from the closeness of his face to hers, she realised _just_ how much more attractive he was, with the gold in his eyes shining now that the suddenness of his movements had thrown his glasses off of his face.

It was strange, she thought, how one little moment could change her perspective on one person, and yet, there she was, staring up at James Potter with a new sense of fascination. She’d never taken a moment out of her day to realise just how _long_ his eyelashes were, or just how _sharp_ his jawline was. Her heart seemed to have been pounding, so loudly that she wouldn’t have been surprised if everyone else in the world could hear it, and—

Everything moved as paced once again as soon as she watched him get pelted with water.

Right, there _was_ no magical little moments— or, at least not any as magical as how the fairy tales depicted— in the outside world.

A car had come, dangerously veering near the curb, and though it was not close enough to hit either of them, it still sprinkled a surge of water over him, as it had rained the night before. His eyes closed, as if he could will himself away from the situation, and he promptly let go of her, his hands flying up to his hat to take it off. “You good?” he asked, wringing the hat to get rid of excess water.

“Considering the fact that I’m dry, I’d say that I am,” she said, watching with a mixture of amusement and shock as he struggled with his apparent wetness.

She was, it seemed, not the only one. People had begun pointing and noticing now, and she’d have been an absolutely _fool_ if she thought that there was any other explanation for their staring, especially when they’d pulled out their phones to record them. “James.”

“Hold on, I just—”

“People have noticed.”

“People have— _shit.”_ He took her hand, and she didn’t miss the warmth that encompassed every inch of it, leading her to his car that he’d parked a few buildings away. “Do you trust me?”

“You punched a bloke _for_ me, so I’d say—”

 _“Great.”_ He unlocked the car for her, and with one last glance at the crowd growing around them, they stepped inside.

* * *

 James Potter, like his alter-ego Thomas Bell, was an enigmatic person, one that grinded the gears in her brain as she figured out just _exactly_ what to make of him.

He was undeniably charming, and just the _thought_ of his charm brought to mind the dimple that took residence on the left side of his face, one that was so lovely that she’d be more than happy to pay rent to move in to live in it.

They’d gone on more of their assigned dates, each one somehow being better than the last, perhaps because it was so difficult to _not_ want to look forward to seeing him once again. They hadn’t done anything after the first date, and he’d merely dropped her off with a few parting words, staying true to the words that she knew that he would keep.

Somehow, though, the world seemed to be under the notion that they were a _couple_ now, even _if_ they didn’t done anything but appear in public together. _One_ date— one small little date done solely for the purpose of better getting into her character— and now, she was apparently dating James Potter. No one seemed to even be _against_ the two of them together, no one but _them._

Or on the _outside,_ she was opposed to it. The inside, it seemed, was far more complicated.

McGonagall saw the news as a means of gaining publicity for the film, as if practically the entire _nation_ wasn’t already anticipating its release since learning about who was to be the leads of it, as if the entire nation wasn’t _already_ talking about how the two people that they’d wanted to be a couple were _finally_ going to get screen time together. She’d always assumed that it was because they were two attractive people, and it was, apparently, in human nature to pair up two people for their looks no matter the little interaction that they’d had between them.

Now, though, perhaps they _weren’t_ as mad as it’d appeared.

He was far too lovely for his own good, for _her_ own good.

If she were to be asked about her opinions on him a year ago, she’d have responded with a simple phrase that implied that she _couldn’t_ tolerate him, but when the media tended to blow every little word that slipped from her mouth out of proportion, it was horrible on her part if she said anything worse. If she were to be asked about her opinions on him a _week_ ago, it would have been something completely different from now.

Now— _now,_ she wished that they’d gotten the chance to talk sometime _much_ earlier in the past, if it meant that their friendship came earlier.

Because they were the highlights of practically every unreliable magazine article now, he’d taken to putting her privacy over his own, using any article of clothing that he had to cover her, and the gesture didn’t at all go unnoticed by her. It was _far_ too sweet of him, even _if_ his efforts were futile.

Getting to know James Potter, it seemed, was a means of also getting to know _herself._

He’d somehow been able to see right through her, just as much as she saw right through _him,_ but to balance out the seriousness, they’d had moments where they laughed so loudly that the _universe_ must have heard the sounds in their joy. The _birds_ must have been jealous of them, because no song of theirs could _possibly_ have been able to match the sheer delight that she and James shared.

It was nearly alarming just how smooth the transition into friendship was, and even _more_ alarming than that was the fact that she felt something _so_ much more different than what a friend should feel towards another friend.

The first rule of being an actress, especially one who played more than a handful of characters involved in a romantic relationship with another character, was to never, not under _any_ circumstances, fall for a co-star. Feelings made roles far more awkward than they should have been, and she thought she’d always been sensible. It had _never_ happened, no matter how pleasant her co-stars had been, but now, James Potter seemed to be breaking records for her.

She had feelings for him, and it didn’t help that _today_ would be the day that the feelings were to manifest into a form of physicality, where her affections were to be embedded in a fake kiss done solely for a _film._

Then again though, it wouldn’t be Lily kissing James, no matter how much she wanted it to be otherwise. It was _Phoebe_ kissing _Thomas._

She was distinctly aware of all of the cameras on her, all of the _eyes_ on her, but she didn’t let it deter her from delivering her lines as intended, letting the words stream out of her lips as directed. They were back in the car again, and this time, she didn’t fail to miss how unfathomably _beautiful_ the man sitting beside her was.

“Our job _involves_ secrecy. If there’s one thing that you _can’t_ seem to hide, it’s your feelings.”

He grimaced slightly. “I tried my best,” he grumbled, “It’s a bit hard when it’s _you.”_

Something fluttered in the depths of her stomach when he said that, something that hadn’t been there the first time she’d heard those words. She ignored it, not even a _millisecond_ spent breaking her character, because she was most definitely _going_ to nail this kiss once and for all.

“And it’s _just_ me.” She let her other hand cup his cheek, and she gave him a warm smile. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

The curves of his lips were unmissed, and she pulled her closer to him, her hand flying towards his own and holding it kindly for a split second, before moving back up to his face where they had sat before. Her eyes drew closed, and she leaned in, pressing her lips against his, and where disgust had occupied before was now feelings of anticipation, _excitement._

She hadn’t gotten this far before with him. Before, it was a small touch of the lips, barely enough to register, and it was more than enough to keep her going on further.

It was slow, hesitant, as if they were attempting to savour the experience for the first time, and she was noticeably aware of the warmth spreading across her body as his hands lightly cupped her chin. Thomas Bell— no, _James Potter—_ tasted sweet, _heavenly,_ and the mere fact that she’d been missing out on _this_ this entire time was far beyond her scope of knowledge. With her eyes shut off from the rest of the world, she could almost imagine that they _were_ truly in a car, moving away from the troubles of the past, _finally_ able to catch up with the feelings that were threatening to overtake them.

It was at this moment that the line between Phoebe Clarke and Lily Evans was almost blurred, because with feelings _this_ strong towards this man in front of her— his hair so unruly that _any_ hurricane would have been envious of the unknown force able to sweep it in every single direction— there seemed to be nothing important to be thinking of but _him._ Rationality was at its full force in her brain, but it had decided to give them time to fully absorb the other into their system.

And then, everything began progressing rapidly.

He pressed harder against her lips, inciting the already-thumping motions of her heart to a speed faster than any train could have gone, and his hands suddenly grasped her own, squeezing them tightly before flying back up to her face. It was as he was intentionally trying to _wring_ her heart, flush out every affection of hers out, just to replace any that was lost with his own to fill her up once again.

He pushed against her, and the manner in which he was using _every_ trick that she’d never been acquainted with using _every_ part of his lips, mouth, _tongue,_ was more than enough to induce sounds of bliss from her lips. Her sounds spurred him on, and he used more force against her, as if it _pained_ him to not be as close as he possibly could be with her.

She felt her head thud softly against the cool leather of the seat, and her lips curved upwards against his own, like a mirror trying to keep pace with what was being reflected. He pulled off of her, as slow as they’d started out, and in the moments when she opened her eyes, green meeting gold, was the moment that she’d realised that she’d been Phoebe Clarke the entire time.

It didn’t matter how fast her heart was beating, or how hard it was for her to regain her breath, because Lily Evans wasn’t kissing James Potter.

 _Nothing_ should have mattered though, because his lips came crashing down on hers once again. It was lovely and wonderful and all things beautiful and—

“Cut!” McGonagall yelled out, and she suddenly felt cold when his body was completely off of her. The set seemed ten times brighter now that she’d opened her eyes, and she absolutely _hated_ how her eyes immediately began to search for him. She was a _professional._ She shouldn’t _feel_ disappointed that the kiss had ended. She shouldn’t _feel_ disappointed that her first kiss with James Potter had been one orchestrated for the sole sake of a production.

And yet… there she was, feeling something that she shouldn’t have felt.

A kiss so _mind-boggling_ amazing wasn’t real; it _couldn’t_ be real if emotions from both parties weren’t put into it.

McGonagall had gone on about how the kiss was _exactly_ what she’d intended it to be and how it was a wrap for the entire filming process. She didn’t _want_ it to come to an end, not when she’d _just_ befriended James.

“Lily,” he suddenly said behind her, and she turned around, seeing a bit of her lipstick smeared on the corner of his lip, “You all right?”

She composed herself, nodding. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t be.”

He shrugged lightly, offering his water to her. “It’s just that everyone’s celebrating about filming finally being over with, and you’re standing there looking like you’ve just watched someone kick over a puppy on the streets.”

She tentatively took the water from his hands, bringing it to her lips and letting a small bit of it into her mouth before holding it back out to him. “It happens a lot to me. I just— It’s a little upsetting that all of the fun shooting has come to an end now. You’ve got lipstick on your lip, by the way.”

He gave her a grin, and her heart fluttered at the sight. “I reckon it means someone did a fantastic job then, yeah?” He wiped on the wrong side of his lip, and she shook her head at him, reaching up to wipe it off herself. He looked at her with softened eyes. “There’s something else you’re intentionally leaving out.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” she replied, “I feel great. Absolutely _great.”_

His eyes flashed towards the production team, all of whom having taken to clean up the set, with a bit more enthusiasm in their movements now that everything was finally filmed and over with. His eyes returned back to her. “Then, do you want to talk about not knowing what I’m talking about over dinner?”

Her eyes widened, and she was much more aware of just how quickly her heart was beating, as if he hadn’t kissed her the way that _all_ women attracted to men have always dreamed of being kissed. “James—”

“Lunch, then, if you prefer that option more?” He looked hopefully at her. “Only I’ve really enjoyed the time we spent together, and I kind of sort of _really_ wanted to take out any fake aspect in our relationship and make it real.”

“You’re asking me out,” she stated, “Are you—“

“Serious? Sure? Out of my mind?” he finished for her, grinning as he referenced back to that one instance. She shook off any surprise that she felt, letting herself smile up at him. “I don’t see why we can’t do both.”

His lips curved upwards. “Then, both?”

“Are you asking me out on a date— _dates,_ I mean?”

“If we’re turning it back on me, then yes, actually. I can’t imagine us having the best kiss I’ve ever had in my bloody life and _not_ going out to celebrate it.”

His smile broadened. “I can’t imagine that the day where the ‘fake’ aspect of our relationship is finally going to _maybe_ change is today.”

She felt herself mirroring the curve of his lips, and she took his hand gently in hers. “You should start believing, then.” Her eyes returned back to the production team. “Only _after_ we help clean up, though. I can’t bear to just leave them to clean up all of our dirty work.”

“You make it sound like we’ve just killed someone.”

 _“We_ haven’t. Agents Clarke and Bell, on the other hand…”

He made an ostentatious show of disbelief at their characters. “Their _audacity._ Bloody spies, and they can’t even bother to clean up after themselves.”

“I wouldn’t put it against them if they haven’t ever had a day to ever catch a break _to_ clean.”

“What about when they get _domestic_ and have little children running around the house?”

“That’s bold of you to ever assume that they’d ever step down from their positions to _have_ children.”

“You’re _right._ They’ll be eighty years old and _still_ be kicking bad guy arse.”

Her smiled had widened so much to the point that it physically hurt to keep it on her face. “Lily and James, however, will be over here helping the staff clean up.”

He grinned. “James Potter and Lily Evans, helping people. Acting. _Dating,_ maybe. I can’t think of anything even remotely better. Besides just the ‘Lily’ bit, obviously. That’s always the best part. _You’re_ always the best part.”

She felt her heart flying off into the clouds at his words.

* * *

 There were about a million exciting things that were to come from this night, but the million camera flashes coming in her immediate direction were absolutely _not_ one of them.

She’d been doing it for years, slipping into a routine of changing into a lovely dress and letting Mary do whatever it was that she liked on her face, and yet, all those years of practiced _still_ hadn’t fully braced her for the many shutter clicks ringing in her ears. James, unsurprisingly, had managed to distract her from the blinding lights, and rather than looking professional and cool in his suit— which made him at least a _billion_ times more gorgeous than usual— he’d taken to making funny faces at the cameras.

In all of the photos that were to come out, she was sure that her smiles would be the most genuine ones any camera had been lucky enough to capture in all of her lifetime.

It wasn’t surprising either when they were asked to take photos together, not because they were _dating—_ which was a popular rumour that they’d _yet_ to confirm or deny— but because of their _film_ together. Well, _maybe_ because of the dating rumours, but either way, _what_ did it matter? There was absolutely _nothing_ wrong with taking photos together.

Besides, it wasn’t as if she was _opposed_ to any public display of affection, not when they, according to many articles and the general consensus of the Internet, had shared the _hottest,_ most _passionate_ kiss that the film industry had ever had the privilege of witnessing.

That kiss, in hindsight, was perhaps one of the _tamest_ that they’d shared together, especially when the public wasn’t there to witness it in the privacy of their own homes.

She cherished privacy, but other times, she wanted _so_ desperately to shout to the world that she, Lily Evans, was dating James Potter. She wanted to hold his hand in public, to go on _real dates_ without assuming some terrible disguise to hide from the general public, but she supposed that for now, she would take _any_ time spent with him over nothing.

The theatre was dark, and had it not been for the many cameras set up to film the program, she would have risked it to hold his hand. It was _fine,_ though, because she’d held it enough times to know what exactly it felt like, rough and warm and fitting _perfectly_ against her own, and so she intertwined her own hands together in a poor attempt to pretend that they _were_ holding hands with one another.

He leaned in to her, though not close enough to attract attention from any outsider. “You look absolutely _stunning,_ if you didn’t know.”

Her lips drew upwards in response. “If _I’m_ stunning, then what are you?”

“Somewhere in that same range,” he grinned, adding, “I didn’t even know it was possible for you to get even _more_ stunning than usual, but you always manage to prove me wrong.”

She felt her cheeks reddening, and she was ever-so-grateful for Mary’s insane talents when it came to a brush, not exactly wanting the cameras to catch it, especially when it wouldn’t take long for people to realise _who_ was causing her to blush. “You’re exaggerating it.”

“Nah. Come on, I mean, you make number one on my list for Most Attractive— personality _and_ looks-wise— Woman every year.”

“I hate to say it, but looks are rather _subjective,_ wouldn’t you say?”

“When you say subjective, do you mean you’re always the main _subject_ of all of my daydreams?”

She didn’t know whether to roll her eyes or blush or laugh or or kiss him or _whatever,_ and finally decided to say, “That’s far too counterproductive of you to for it to be true.”

“You’re underestimating the time I take out of my day just thinking about your utter _brilliance.”_

She rolled her shoulders easily. “I’d be overestimating, if anything. And Hollywood makes it so that apparently me thinking too highly of myself justifies the hate I get, even though the same platform preaches that confidence is supposed to go a long way.”

“The fact that people _hate_ you. I just— It’s so bloody inconceivable to me. Lily Evans, an Academy Award winner, the nation’s _sweetheart,_ my _girlfriend—”_ He grinned lightly at the last bit, and the sweet little dimple on his face came out to greet her. “ — Is the target of bloody misogynistic comments and jealousy-fueled comments, and I just don’t bloody _understand.”_

“It’s not as if the entire world hates me,” she said, smiling at how quick he was to taking her side on these situations, “We wouldn’t have been nominated for this award show if they did, even though I’d really like to think that they consider our _talents_ over anything else.”

“Nah, the entire world bloody fancies the pants off of you.”’

“You’re being too generous again.”

“Nope.”

She eyed him with suspicion, and she bit back a laugh. “You’re calling _yourself_ the world?”

“If you say he,” he chirped, “But, if to get technical, I’m _your_ world.”

“I hope that, as my world, you’ve no ounce of pollution in your body.”

“‘Course not,” he said back, “You treat me with the utmost respect, and I provide you with all of the resources that you need. It’s a win-win situation. Shit, that sounds a bit dirty.”

“It sounds dirty _now_ because you pointed it out.”

“Oi, stop polluting the world with this dirt,” he chastised her, and she rolled her eyes. He had an easy-going grin on his face, and he leaned back in his seat, “You ready to receive all the awards?”

“I’m ready to _clap_ for whoever wins,” she corrected him, “I’m not trying to set myself up for disappointment.”

“And has the talented Lily Evans ever been disappointed by not winning an award before?”

“Many times, actually. You’d be surprised.”

“I’d say you don’t have to worry about disappointment tonight.”

Her eyes drew upwards slightly. “Is that innuendo?”

“Do you _want_ it to be innuendo?”

Whether she wanted it to be innuendo or not, she didn’t get to answer, because suddenly, the screen containing a poster that announced the awards resting in the middle of the stage moved upwards out of view, and a woman’s voice boomed through the air.

Needless to say, the awards show had started.

They’d whizzed through a wide assortment of categories, a bunch of lovely performances, and she’d clapped loudly alongside James with each new presence on stage. It was thrilling to see as _others_ got to see that their dreams of fame had taken life, that they’d gone _so_ far in life and had made it. She _revelled_ in celebrating with them, because every single person who had been nominated _deserved_ their spots in fame.

James hadn’t failed in making her laugh the entire time, and that small little gesture did _not_ go unnoticed by the camera, which seemed to function solely for recording their interactions more than it did with the actual awards. It wasn’t as if they were exactly being secretive about their relationship, and though no concrete evidence really existed of them dating— unless one counted the fake dates that they’d been on that the public had seen— the world seemed to have great talent in connecting the little things to a much bigger picture.

The awards ceremony wasn’t _just_ a place to win and be disappointed, no matter the conversation that she’d had with James— it was a place to feel _happy_ for others. This thought didn’t even come from the side of her that sensed that they _weren’t_ going to win the award that they’d been nominated for. It was _all_ of her that truly, genuinely _was_ happy for everyone else.

And if she got to spend this time with James, then it didn’t at _all_ matter that the award for the best leading roles of a film weren’t going to—

“James Potter and Lily Evans!”

She blinked.

Perhaps she’d misheard—

No. She _hadn’t_ misheard, because the noise all around her was thunderous, booming as if they were fireworks celebrating a new year, and James was far beyond shocked, his eyes widened in incredulity, and her legs seemed to get up on their own, and the next thing that she knew was that she was being swept up in a hug by him, which only spurred the crowds to scream louder. She couldn’t even savour the feel of him against her, because he’d suddenly pulled off of her, saying softly, “Let’s get that award, yeah?”

She nodded, smiling, not able to say a word because she was still so _shocked_ by the announcement, as if she _hadn’t_ won awards this grande before, and he walked behind her, holding her trailing dress to keep her from tripping on its length with national television as a witness. Her heartbeat elevated, because he was just so bloody _sweet_ that it should have been illegal.

The man, an old and retired actor, who was perhaps known more for his eccentricity than his actual _skills—_ this in itself said a lot about him, as he’d received more than enough awards to last him a lifetime of assurance in his abilities as an actor— smiled kindly at her, and she accepted the award from his hands. It was _far_ too difficult to do anything but smile— smile _so_ hard that her cheeks threatened to burst because she was just so _jovial_ about it all.

James had caught up to her at that time, and she’d thought that he was merely going to escort the two of them to the podium, but her heart jumped at least ten miles when his lips crashed down upon hers.

The kiss itself was short, but the small seconds that his lips were upon hers seemed to last forever, and he manner in which he was cupping her chin was enough to make her heart cry out with joy. There was far too much smiling involved on both of their parts, and the roars from the crowd seemed to grow exponentially at the action, but this was _James._

James, James, _James._

And _just_ when she’d thought that this night couldn’t have possibly been better, he’d out and proved her wrong.

When he pulled away, a goofy grin on his face, she was _definitely_ smiling much harder than she’d been doing before. He took her hand in his, and she suddenly found herself standing in front of the podium with him, staring back at who knows _how_ many people were in the crowds, definitely excited by a long-suspected couple finally confirming their relationship.

James adjusted the mic. “If you couldn’t tell, I’m right pleased that we won. Like, _immensely,_ so thank you all for that.” He raised their intertwined hands up. “Most people tell their crushes that they fancy them, but the first thing I did was punch a bloke in the face. Clearly, I haven’t been transparent about my feelings for the longest time.”

She took over this time, not wanting him to continue lest she break all her self-control to kiss the daylights out of him. “We’ve been working the absolute _hardest_ on this movie, and I’m eternally grateful that our all was enough for this award. Everyone who was nominated absolutely _deserved_ this, and to be the ones to be getting it makes me beyond _thrilled._ It’s been a _wonderful_ night tonight. Thank you, thank you, _thank you.”_

“Times a million,” James added, leaning into the microphone, “Because ‘Ditto’ obviously isn’t an appropriate thing to put in an acceptance speech.”

The audience laughed, and he made an ostentatious show of blowing an air kiss to the camera before pressing another kiss on her cheek.

Perhaps— no, most _definitely—_ she _did_ love him, her James, and it didn’t matter anymore how many times any costar of hers had said it to her because it was in the script.

It would be _very_ soon when the words fell from her lips, told in the most genuine fashion that such a three-lettered phrase could ever be said.

She didn’t need a script to tell him that she loved him.

She only needed _him._

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @lovesickjily :)  
> and again, if you enjoyed this, please leave a kudo and/or a comment. i would appreciate it dearly <3 <3 x)


End file.
